


Take a Load Off

by givesamapuppy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comfort Sex, F/M, Fingering, Kinda, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 15:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6991447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givesamapuppy/pseuds/givesamapuppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re having a rough day until Sam and Dean walk into your bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take a Load Off

Alright. Two hours ‘till closing. You can do this.

You walk backwards through the swinging kitchen doors with three plates on your left arm and a pitcher of sweet tea in your right and enter the clanging cacophony of The Rusty Knife at peak drinking time. The air in the dimly lit repurposed old barn is thick and somewhat smoky, which is odd because you’ve got a strict no smoking policy. Hopefully it’s just coming in from outside and you won’t have to kick someone’s ass for lighting up inside; that would just be the cherry on top of a so far pretty craptastic day.

Owning your own bar has its perks, but some days are tougher than others and today has been a goddamn conveyor belt of bad. For one thing, a contractor came this morning and told you the building’s got structural issues; the old barn’s walls could fall down if they’re not reinforced – like you’ve got the money to deal with that. Then around lunch some hunters came in with that look in their eyes, turns out they’d lost a couple on a demon job that morning, friends of yours, too.

On top of that, earlier you were stuck in the back cleaning dishes for several minutes while some couple fucked loudly in the alley on the other side of the wall, and the sounds they were making got you hornier than you cared to admit. The Rusty Knife has kept you busy lately, and it’s been a long time since you’ve been able to relieve any tension—with someone else or by yourself, so you’re finding just about anything can set you off. You may have stayed and scrubbed those dishes a while longer than was strictly necessary, but hey, there’s nothing wrong with being meticulous about your cleaning. Now your mouth is dry and you’re breathing a little fast as you drag yourself back into the fray, but there isn’t a thing you can do about it until you close for the day.

The keening guitar of the Friday night band cuts through the rough voices and raucous laughter as you dutifully scan each table in the room while you distribute your armful, looking out for trouble. It’s easy to tell, with practice, when something’s about to break out. The crowd that frequents your bar is predictable; it’ll start with the gritted teeth, the twitch of the jaw, then they’ll get the vein popping out, sometimes it’s in the neck, sometimes the forehead, and once they’re kicking their stool back from the table and standing up you’re over there shutting it down before it can start. No fights in your bar. Two feet outside, sure, all the time. But not under your roof.

The band has moved into some Led Zeppelin now, drawn out and plaintive chords and dragged drum beats. You hoist yourself up on the bar top to get a better vantage point over the crowded heads, and you can’t help squirming a little as the sweat-heavy air and sensual wail of “Since I’ve Been Loving You” stokes your desire further. You’re wondering if there’s anyone around tonight who you wouldn’t mind throwing a key to your room, tapping your fingers on the thickly lacquered wood of the bar and rubbing your thighs together subtly, when your scanning of the room is interrupted by a particularly tall head. A long-haired head, next to another, shorter one. Your breath catches as you squint at them, as if that could give you x-ray vision to see their faces. You don’t want to get your hopes up, but they look about as much like Winchesters as the backs of two heads can.

It turns out you don’t have to wonder long, because after shortly disappearing in the melee, the two men appear making their way towards you, and you break into a massive grin.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” You jump down from the bar and open your arms to grab them both in a warm hug, which is met with equal enthusiasm by Sam and Dean.

“We figured we’d stop in and make sure you weren’t getting too lonely out here,” Dean says with a wink and a clap on your shoulder. Sam beams down at you from over Dean’s shoulder, and you turn to order them two whiskeys on the house, also to hide your blushing smile.

Forget what you said before, this is starting to look like your lucky day. You’ve known the Winchesters for a few years, your bar being a common hunter haunt and all, but it’s been a while since you’ve seen them, and it’s a more than welcome surprise. You and Sam hit it off the first time you met, and since then you’ve been casual hookups whenever he was around. It probably would have turned into more by now if he could stick around for more than a couple days, but of course he can’t, and that’s really fine too. It’s nice to have the company, even if it’s only once in a blue moon.

Now, you’re leaning in close enough to smell Sam’s musky scent coming from the patch of chest above the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, and he’s leaning forward too with his forearm braced against the bar. In a place this loud it’s pretty much necessary to talk directly into one another’s ears to hold any sort of a conversation, but you don’t exactly mind the proximity. Dean has disappeared into the fray, swaggering off whiskey glass in hand, and left you and Sam to “catch up,” as he said with a wink and a nudge.

“So, what’s the news from the front?” you only half joke. Hunting really is like a war these days, and bringing back bodies like one too.

Sam’s face greys, and he looks down into his whiskey glass as he turns it around in his long fingers. “Nothing good,” he answers, low enough that you can’t really hear, but you can read his lips and the slump of his shoulders. You place a hand over his where it’s clenched on the bar top, and nod, because it’s really all you can do.

“Well I’m glad you’re here. And I’m glad for all of us that you and your brother are still out there fighting.”

Sam looks up and smiles, one that reaches the corners of his eyes. Before either of you can say anything more, Dean comes bounding back over with an empty glass.

“Dude, this band is _great_!” he shouts, “We should just move in here. Whad’ya think, Sammy?” Dean wiggles his eyebrows at his brother, and you roll your eyes and wave to your bartender for another round.

“Well boys, I’d love to keep chatting but I’ve got to keep this place from burning to the ground. But stick around ‘till closing, yeah?”

 

It’s always eerily quiet after you close up for the night, the abrupt transition from loud to silent, crowded to empty. Today, though, you’re not alone; Sam’s swinging the last stool up on its tabletop and Dean’s jingling his keys out of his jacket pocket.

“You two be careful, now,” he teases, and saunters out the door.

Once Dean’s gone, your heart starts to jig in excitement and anticipation, and you perform your closing chores at double speed. Sam leans back against a high table with his hands buried deep in his pockets and watches with a patience you most certainly do not possess. As you’re finishing up scrubbing the bar top, you see out of the corner of your eye Sam pushing himself off the table and striding towards you. A moment later the comforting heat of Sam is at your back, and you draw in a breath when his palm lays heavy on your shoulder. It’s as if his warmth is infectious, spreading all through you from the brush of his hand over your shoulder, the backs of his fingers running down your arm. His hand settles on your hip while the other pushes your hair over your shoulder so he can bend to nose up the vertebrae along the back of your neck and press soft lips onto the bend of your shoulder. You grab his hand on your hip and turn around, straining up on your tip toes to kiss him quickly before pulling him by the elbow off to your attached apartment, flipping off the lights in the empty bar as you rush through the door.

Once you’ve passed the threshold into your bedroom, Sam spins you to face him and his hands are back, running up and down your sides and slipping under the hem of your shirt to press at the soft skin there. His lips are warm and feel as delicate as they look, but there’s a power in the press of his jaw behind them which makes for kisses that have you shimmying your clothes off as fast as you can. Sam seems to have the same idea, and as soon as you’re both skin to the night air, he falls back on your bed and you’re on top of him in an instant. You take a moment to lean back and appreciate his bare form, and he does the same to you, eyes and hands taking in all they can. It’s a bit of a tradition, this little inspection; since you see each other so infrequently you like to remember what he feels like, run your hands over his chest and abs and feel what’s changed and what hasn’t, take inventory of new scars and fresh bruises. It’s sad, but necessary.

“I’m sorry things aren’t going better out there,” you say in a hush, eyes lingering unfocused on the purple along his ribs.

“Yeah,” he sighs, the back of his thumb running up your side. “Me too.”

When you first saw Sam’s broad frame in the chaos of your bar, you thanked your lucky stars that you’d have someone—in fact your favorite someone—to quench the desire you’d been aching with all day. But maybe this could be more than that. Maybe you could offer each other some comfort, some distraction, as well as physical pleasure.

“Well,” you say with a tentative smile, “how about we try and forget about all that for a while, yeah?”

Sam reaches around and cups the back of your neck to draw you down to his lips, and his smile looks genuine. “Sounds good.”

You open your mouth to him, letting him pull you in impossibly closer and steal your breath, taking you into his lungs and holding you there. Sam’s kisses are always claiming, strong jaw pushing and tongue stroking until you’re pliant and sighing on top of him. You decide to make a claim of your own, sliding a hand down between you to grip his cock firmly, and you’re pleased when he grunts and twitches beneath you. You pump him slowly, feeling his weight in your palm, and his sharp-muscled abdomen clenches under your stomach at the stimulation.

Heavy hands land on your shoulders and flip you over so you bounce on the mattress before you’re stilled by a wall of Sam pressing you down. He shifts his weight onto one shoulder so a hand is free to skate down your stomach and slide two fingers into you easily. It’s been a while since you’ve done this but his hands still know exactly what to do to get you moaning, the muscle memory in his fingers like an expert piano player. You’re not sure what to focus on as Sam moves down to close his mouth around your nipple, setting his tongue to work at the same time as his fingers pump and curl inside you. As far as you’re concerned, Sam is actually, physically made for this; those fingers long enough to reach all the best places and the rough callouses on his fingertips adding friction that has you biting your tongue.

It takes Sam no time at all to find your sweet spot, and when he does, you know you’re done for. He crooks his two fingers so that the second knuckles are rubbing against that spot mercilessly, making you squirm as his mouth laves at your breast, your body receiving shocks of pleasure from both at once that seem to meet in the middle and combine into an overwhelming heat deep in your belly. You’re overloaded by the barrage of sensation and can hardly think straight, much less control the whimpers and choked gasps that are coming out of you. It’s all so good, so much, and something’s got to give.

“Sam, please. S’too much, I can’t,” you babble, and he responds with a thumb stroking at your shoulder before bearing down further, the almost unbearable _yes_ buzzing through your body building and building until you come with eyes closed and mouth open in a silent cry, hands clamping down on the sheets in some attempt to ground yourself.

As you recover and collect yourself enough to focus your eyes on Sam, he’s lying on his side smiling at you with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, like he’s the one who just came like a goddamn freight train. He leans in to nose along your cheekbone and press a kiss to the corner of your still open mouth, wide hand stroking your belly without thought.

“I could watch that all day,” he murmurs with a smirk, and you believe him. Sam always did have a thing for watching. “Condoms still in the top drawer?” he asks, and you nod, not quite back at the coherent speech level yet.

When he comes back, condom in hand, you turn on your side and pull him in for a kiss, suddenly very invested in having his lips on yours. Sam’s happy to oblige, smiling when you hold him there with both hands and relaxing into the kiss, soft and deep. When you’ve had your fill you release your hands clasped behind his neck and he sits up, shifting back so he’s close to the headboard and sliding the condom on.

“C’mere,” he says, reaching out to take you by the waist and lift you into position on his lap. His right hand slides to rest firm on the small of your back and you bring your legs in front of you to wrap them around his back, pulling yourself tighter against him so you’re chest to chest and your hips open to fit his snugly between them.

“So good,” he murmurs, before taking you by the hips and sliding you down slowly and carefully onto his leaking cock. You can see out of your peripheral vision that he’s watching your face, probably to make sure he’s not going too fast, but your eyes are glued on where he’s disappearing inside of you, stretching and filling and sating you. A cut-off moan makes its way up your throat, and you rest one hand on the mattress behind you and lean back for a better view. You pump your hips a bit experimentally, and the angle has his cock pressing right up against your sweet spot, making you start and grip harder with the hand resting on Sam’s thick shoulder.

Sam’s statue-still except for the slight flare of his nostrils and you decide to see if you can make him move, so you clench down on him and roll your hips again. He gives a strained groan and snaps, reaching around you with both arms and yanking you back against his chest. Once he’s got a hand wrapped wide around your waist he starts working his hips up against yours, setting the pace and holding it steady as he nips and pulls at your lower lip.

Sam’s back is broad beneath your hands, the strong cords of his trapezius shifting and pulling as he thrusts and clutches at your sides. You love being able to feel the strength of his thighs beneath you, so solid and powerful, and the contrast between this and his soft, thorough kisses and soothing licks sends you spiraling. You’re caught between so many point of pleasure that there’s nowhere to run, and all you can do is let go, feeling with pinprick precision every touch, hearing the steady creak of the bed, the hitch in your own breath, Sam’s throaty noises of effort and desire.

Sam’s arms are a vice grip around you, melding you to his chest and dragging you down on his cock harder with each thrust, and you’re grinding against him yourself, digging your heels into the dips of his lower back, as much to pull him closer as to keep you both from crumbling apart.

It’s sooner than you would have expected that it springs on you, you’re thrust right to the brink of your release with no warning, and for a few long moments you hover there, holding your breath and nearly shaking with the need to come. When you do, the sparks and spasms that roll through your body and shock your nerves cause you to unintentionally clamp down hard on Sam’s cock, and the intense feeling of fullness from every aching inch of him rips a harsh noise from your throat.

That pushes Sam into his own orgasm, and as his body tightens and shudders he refuses to break contact with your mouth, kissing you purple-lipped-hard through the whole thing, then soft and sloppy as he comes down.

There’s a crisp silence that falls upon the room afterwards, as you both catch your breath and shake the stars from your eyes, still clinging to each other despite the heat and sweat and the growing ache in your legs from being wrapped at a weird angle around Sam’s back. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, or in any way an unpleasant one; it’s like a necessary vacuum left behind.

You wince as you untangle your legs and lift yourself off of him, rolling right over and collapsing on the mattress with a blissfully satisfied sigh. Sam throws you a devastating grin over his shoulder, shaking the hair out of his face before flopping down next to you.

“You gotta be careful with those,” you say, laying a hand over your eyes and rubbing them clear.

“With what?” he asks, jutting his chin forward to rest on your shoulder and giving you an innocent puppy-eyed look that you know is complete bullshit.

“Those _smiles_ ,” you scoff. “Could ruin a girl’s life.” It’s true. He wouldn’t mean to, of course. But it’s true.

The day’s frustrations seem ages away, and you’ve successfully chased away thoughts of hunters’ bodies being brought back in spades for a while, though now that it’s over there’s a distinct twinge in your belly as the images sneak back. Sleep is muffling your thoughts, pulling you down heavily, but you want to keep your head above water long enough to extend an invitation, see if you can draw out this comfort and keep the bad at bay for a while longer, though you don’t really expect him to say yes.

“Hey, you’re welcome to stay the night—I don’t mind.”

There’s a brief pause before he speaks, and he sounds just as blurry as you feel. “Okay, yeah, I think I will.”

You’re surprised, but when he scoots just a bit closer to you, and his arm lies gently over your stomach, your mind is clear and quiet, and you feel his heartbeat against your shoulder even and calm. It’s just for tonight, you have no illusions otherwise, but in this bloodied world you’re glad to have this temporary solace. Whatever walks through your door—or screws in your alley, or smokes in your bar—tomorrow, the day will be brighter for who you’ll wake up next to in the morning, and that’s no small feat.


End file.
